


Chuckles Vs. Nicky

by AKMars



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Clowns, Gen, Santa Claus - Freeform, Violence, descriptions of phobias, very foul language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:11:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKMars/pseuds/AKMars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A clown and Santa Claus have a 'disagreement'.  Reese has to handle the fall-out with Finch's help.  See end of story for prompt information.  This is the last of my Gift Fic Prompt Request from December of 2012.  This is a DARK story....although it does contain a ray of hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chuckles Vs. Nicky

Title: Chuckles vs. Nicky  
Prompt From: Tezukasama's LJ Gift Fic Offer (see notes at end of story)  
Characters: John Reese, Harold Finch, OCs  
Rating: M (for violence, disturbing images, foul language)  
Genre: Angst, Drama, H/C, Friendship  
Word Count: 3020(ish)

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_December 22, 2:27pm_

**location: circus experience pavilion, coney island  
** **subject: feldman, harlan- performer**  
 **camera: ci-477, building exterior**

_The fifty-something, balding gentleman took a deep drag on his cigarette, snorting in contempt as he exhaled a plume of acrid smoke. His apprentice, still in partial makeup, greasepaint eyebrows making his sad expression even more lugubrious; stood beside him as he listened to his mentor expound on his views of the other members of the Coney Island troupe._

_"So I says to the guy 'who were you lookin' for, asswipe? Freakin' Bozo?' Creepy, pasty-faced prick! Never trust a white-face clown, Mack...they all got somethin' to hide. So scared of showin' their own faces that they blank 'em out with makeup that's one step away from spackle compound. I'd rather trowel plaster on my kisser!"_

_Feldman cleared his throat harshly, hocking a gobbet of saliva covered yellow mucus into the storm drain._

_"Only thing worse than a white-face clown is a fuckin' Santa Claus. Now those are some messed-up bastards!"_

_Both hobo clowns laughed at this comment._

**poipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoi**

 

_December 23, 3:05 pm_

**location: christmasland pavilion, coney island  
** **subject: dobrowski, arthur- performer**  
 **camera: ci-421, interior-staffroom**

_The man in the red suit propped his size 10, leather clad feet on the corner of the table. His companion passed over a flask, after first tipping it back into the fur-covered muzzle of the reindeer suit he was wearing. Arthur, now divested of his beard and hat, took a swig and wiped his mouth on one velvet clad sleeve._

_His dislike for Feldman and his cohorts was no secret to the rest of the Island performers...indeed many of them felt the same. In any case, his cervidean friend listened in silence, nodding from time to time causing the bells in his plastic antlers to jingle cheerfully._

_"Clowns? Bloody assholes, all of 'em! Tramp, white-face, auguste….doesn't matter. Motherfuckers hate kids….HATE 'em! They're two-faced, literally; bunch of hypocrites. Not like us…you show me a man that plays Santa, I'll show you a guy that loves kids. That's the reason we do this. To make kids happy. Clowns are just attention whores."_

_“Damn straight!” Rudolph agreed._

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_December 25, 9:15 pm_

No-one could have been there in time...not in this instance. When John Reese arrived at the dilapidated warehouse, the foregone conclusion had already taken place.

Sprawled out on the trash-littered concrete were two figures straight out of many a child's happy dreams. Except that no circus clown ever performed with half his face gone; red rubber nose still adhering to what was left of the comic tramp's natural proboscis. 

Almost toe to toe with the over-sized and battered leather shoes were a pair of shining black patent-leather boots with gleaming brass buckles. The plush red velvet jacket and pants were askew; the bloated body contained within sprawling slack against already strained seams. 

No longer jolly; _this_ Santa, were he still able to rise, would find delivering presents difficult after receiving six gunshot wounds to his torso. The darker red stains stood out against the bright crimson of his costume; giving mute testament to how adversely 'eating lead' could affect one's system.

Reese had seen many horrors in his life, on the battlefield and during his time with the CIA but nothing compared to this. This self-immolation of happiness and innocence was laid out like the macabre featured installation in a twisted gallery...one intended for his eyes alone.

**poipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoi**

 

_"Mr. Reese?"_

"We're too late, Finch. Feldman and Dobrowski have already taken care of things." 

_"You mean they're-"_

"For at least half an hour." John turned away from the scene, trying with all his might to erase the image from his mind. "I'll let Carter know and then I'm going home."

_"John? Are you al-"_

"I'm fine Finch. Just need some rest." Reese tapped his earpiece, cutting off his employer's next comment. Harold Finch was more than merely a man he worked for. He'd become John's friend, his _only_ family and the voice of his conscience rolled up into one introverted, mercurial package. 

To say that Harold was his anchor with the world was not an exaggeration; but right now the last thing John wanted Finch to see was the sweat beading his brow or overhear the sound of Reese depositing the remains of a hastily snatched falafel from his stomach into a trashcan on the street. 

John wiped his mouth, spitting once more before making his call to the 8th Precinct. He managed to keep himself together long enough to finish his conversation with Joss; then caught the N train that would drop him back close enough to walk to his loft. Reese spent the fifty minute ride shoring up his mental barriers with one of the company's relaxation techniques.

**poipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoi**

 

_He'd been afraid of clowns for most of his life. The fact that it was a common enough condition to have an actual clinical name did little to console the op. Reese had long struggled with his 'affliction', trying any number of self-therapies to overcome it….all to no avail. He'd made enough progress, however to ensure that he could suppress any overt reactions to them; at least by the time of his recruitment in the CIA. The military had in fact been his saving grace. Few Special Forces soldiers found themselves facing actual clowns (the top brass notwithstanding)._

_To have the fear Reese thought he'd successfully repressed come rushing back over him like a tidal wave; filled him with dread. Although granted the sight he’d been witness to was an extreme one, the knowledge that he could still be so affected by it shook his self-confidence badly. ___

_What if another number comes in? Or Harold needs me, or….._ John cut that train of thought off immediately. The odds of the Machine giving them a new irrelevant this close to the previous one was astronomically low. He smirked. _Finch could tell me the statistics exactly. I'm sure he figured them up a long time ago._

Reese's amusement distracted him long enough to get to his loft and lock out the world. Dropping down onto his couch, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and let the tremors overtake him at last. He was in the safest place he knew, _well…..one of the safest_ he amended to himself, thinking automatically of the library and of Finch. Certainly, the only place he could allow himself the luxury of letting down his guard. 

_Memories rolled over him…..he was seven again, in the summer of that year; back at his family's home in Pullyaup. His father and uncle had taken him and a cousin to the circus. Happy thoughts of cotton candy, horses, the smell of sawdust and marveling at the tiger trainer and his big cats floated back to him._

_And then….everything had gone sour. At the intermission a group of clowns had come out to entertain the big top audience as the rings were reset. John, laughing along with his family, enjoyed the antics of the performers, until...._

_It might have been his looks. Even as a child, John's attractiveness was remarked upon. His blue eyes and tousled black hair made ladies coo over him and men pat him on the head, exclaiming what a 'fine young gentleman' he was. To the posse, the boy must have looked like the perfect poster child for 'happy American youth'._

_Whatever the reason he was chosen, the lead clown directed two of his group to pull Reese from the audience and bring him out to be the focus point for their act. John was pushed, pulled, carried; thrown up and down in a blanket, sprayed with seltzer water, covered in confetti, shoved into a rainbow colored wheelbarrow and tumbled all around the ring. By the time the clowns began to tickle him, he'd already started to cry._

_They'd kept that torture up unmercifully until Reese had lost control of his bladder; only the dark blue of his dungarees hiding his disgrace from the audience. When the clowns returned him to his seat, John had managed to stop his tears but his cheeks burned; his now cold, wet pants a blatant symbol of his humiliation. The only blessing was that they'd dried enough by the end of the show not to leave stains on the upholstery of his father's car._

Even now, nearly forty years later, John felt his face heat up as shame again bathed him. The op sucked in deep breaths, attempting to calm himself. _Damn it! I'm a grown man, not a kid too small to fight back….why do I still let this bother me?!_ A knock brought him to his feet, SIG drawn and ready to fire as he saw the metal door swing open. Harold Finch's eyes shifted from the gun to his partner's face, one brow lifting speculatively. 

"Are you that displeased to see me or merely testing the reaction time of your reflexes?" 

Reese lowered the gun, depositing it on his coffee table as he sat down again. "Finch…." John's voice was flat. "What are you doing here? Do we have another number already?" 

"No, we do not." Finch limped over to the hat tree and hung up his coat. When he turned back to face his employee, his pale eyes reflected concern. 

"As to why I'm here….I thought, perhaps you might wish to discuss our most recent situation." 

"Nothing to talk about. Chuckles vs. Nicky, double TKO…end of story." 

Finch sat down, his gaze fixating on the 9mm. "I rather think it isn't, Mr. Reese.” 

“I’m not in the mood for this, Finch. I’m tired....I need sleep.” 

“Do you honestly believe you’re going to be able to close your eyes tonight?” 

The recluse’s voice was full of quiet empathy and that, more so than his so casual question hit Reese like a slap in the face. The op towered over Finch, fists clenched at his side. When he spoke, his own voice was the soft, dangerous one he used to confront the numbers who were intent on destruction. 

“And why would you possibly think that, _Harold_?” 

Unperturbed by his employee’s menacing behavior, Finch looked up at the man; taking in the haunted eyes and stiff posture. 

“I once told you I knew exactly everything about you, Mr. Reese. I do...even the things that were not part of your official records.” 

Reese turned on his heel, stalking to the wall next to his bed and slamming his hand against the white-washed concrete blocks. “There’s no way that you-” 

“I know what happened to you when you were seven....your father told your mother about the visit to the circus. She put two and two together as she watched you grow up; finally seeking the advice of a medical professional.” 

The op swung back around, his eyes blazing. “You’re lying...I never told her....no-one knew what happened because I never said anything!” 

Finch stood up, limping over to face the man who the recluse now regarded as his only friend. “Mr. Reese.... _John_.” 

“How _could_ she have known, Finch?” 

“She did your laundry.” Four words, spoken so softly that the op almost didn’t hear them and yet they pierced his denial like a hypodermic to the heart. 

Reese’s face drained of blood and a sick, cold feeling of revelation washed over him. Snatches of memory....of his mother’s myriad acts of kindness, her deflection of his father’s offers to take John to the circus again the next year by suggesting they go camping instead. Of encouraging John to take karate as he got older; to make friends, play sports, join the scouts... _all with the subtle intent of bolstering his self-confidence, his pride, his physical abilities._

_“Oh God...”_ the op slid down the wall, his backside thumping against the hardwood floor with enough force to make Finch wince. Reese drew his knees up, burying his head in his arms as sobs wracked his tall frame. 

“She knew... _you know...._ ” 

Finch laboriously knelt down in front of Reese, his bad leg screaming its defiance of having to assume such a demanding position, all along his spinal cord. Harold reached out and clasped his friend’s shoulder, only to have Reese jerk away from the contact. 

“Go away, Finch...” 

“John.” Harold didn’t attempt to touch him again but he did stay where he was, hoping that his words would reach the younger man...allow him to open up about his fears at last. 

“Your mother spoke with a psychiatrist when you were twelve. Other than that one consultation, she never mentioned her suppositions or her conversation with the doctor to anyone. She kept it to herself, until the day she died. The records of that consultation are protected by patient confidentiality....I dare say not even you could see them.” 

“You did though....so much for confidentiality.” Reese’s voice was muffled as he still refused to raise his head. 

“Well....I’m not most people.” Finch sighed. “I realize you probably don’t care at this point but you know that I would never use this knowledge for any purpose other than to help you. There are only two people left on earth who know what happened to you and they are both in this room.” 

Harold didn’t think it was possible for someone of Reese’s height to be able to pull in on himself to such a degree but the strong, very capable man he’d offered a job over two years previously was now lying on his side in a tight ball of shame and misery. It hurt Finch’s soul to see his friend so diminished; especially for reasons not of his own devising. He didn’t know if he could get John to accept his help but he would be damned if he didn’t at least try. 

“John...please, we can get through this....I told you on the rooftop, I wouldn’t leave you. I meant it then and I certainly mean it now.” 

“Why? So I can be of use to you again?” A self-derisive laugh forced its way through the folded arms. Reese’s sobs had abated, leaving him lax and numb where he lay. 

“No...because you’re my friend....my _only_ friend and I care about you.” 

Greatly daring now, Finch reached out to place a gentle hand on the crown of Reese’s head; a simple gesture of comfort...of connection. The op didn’t shrug him off this time. 

“I’m tired, Harold.” 

“I know John.” Finch was silent for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as he worked up his own courage to speak. “Monkeys...” he blurted. 

This odd pronouncement startled Reese into raising his head and making eye contact with the other man. _“What?”_

Finch licked his lips and John was surprised to see a flush spread over the recluse’s face. 

“Monkeys, Mr. Reese.” Now it was Harold’s turn to avoid Reese’s gaze. “I am and always have been terrified of monkeys.” 

The op digested this information, shocked both at Finch’s phobia and the fact that he’d just admitted it openly. He was aware that Finch had resumed speaking and tuned into his companion’s words. 

“Unlike yourself, I have no triggering factor or underlying cause to give rationale to my feelings.” Finch was babbling now, evidently even mentioning his fear was causing him distress. 

“One reason I took to reading was that it allowed me to control my source of entertainment. I couldn’t go see Tarzan movies with my friends because of Cheetah and any other simians that might appear on the screen. Even field trips to the zoo with my school classes were torture....” 

Finch gulped, halting in mid-recitation as he felt John’s fingers close about his arm in reassurance. 

“Maybe we should _both_ do something about this...” 

“Together?” 

“Together.” Reese agreed. 

**poipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoi**

**EPILOGUE:**

Finch and Reese emerged from the converted warehouse and took their time walking to where Finch’s driver was waiting for them at the corner. Harold darted a glance at his partner, pleased to see that Reese was relaxed and still chuckling at the joke their instructor had told just before dismissing the class. 

“I trust that things went well, in your opinion?” 

Reese stopped and looked down at him. The op’s eyes were thoughtful but when he smiled at Finch, the expression warmed them too. “Very well. I admit I was skeptical but I think our doing this has sealed the deal.” He laughed again. 

“Besides, isn’t _any_ educational opportunity worth taking?" 

“So I’ve been told....although perhaps graduating from a clown college might not have been quite the original intention of the remark.” 

Reese shrugged, falling into step next to his friend as they approached the vehicle. Settling themselves in the backseat of the limo, Reese gave the driver directions to the diner he and Finch were wont to frequent. Harold raised the privacy screen and the two men fell to discussing their ‘final’ for the class. 

Each team had to conceive, rehearse and present a five minute routine from scratch. The op and the recluse had spent weeks writing gags and dialogue (even to the point of telling jokes to each other during stakeouts), creating and building props and choosing costumes. 

The most telling point for Reese was when he sat down to design his character makeup. Finch made a point of going over pictures of the different clown types and discussing color choices and expressions with him. Harold’s patient, willing presence had been the tipping point for John and he’d sailed through the performance with his partner to earn top marks from Benjanou, their teacher. 

“I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Harold.” 

“I’m pleased to have been of assistance John but you’ve done 90 percent of the work yourself.” Finch placed a hand on his shoulder. “I only hope that I can do as well myself.” 

Reese looked at his boss, relieved to see a small smile on his face rather than one of anxiety. “You’ll do just fine, Harold. I admit I’m looking forward to tomorrow. I haven’t been to a zoo since I was in high school.” 

**poipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoipoi**

NOTES: After re-reading the prompt from the requester, I realized that this wasn’t exactly what they were wanting. There was no actual physical encounter between our antagonists and Reese and the outcome of the altercation was strictly psychological on the part of John. The images the prompt created for me were strong ones which led to the story as it became. In my feeble defense as well, to do the prompt full justice (Reese beat down and blow by blow of the Nicky/Chuckles grudge) would have caused the story to hit the 12-14,000 word mark (with all my other irons in the fire so to speak, it would have been next Christmas before I would have completed it). 

Mind you, this is not to say that I might not revisit this scenario, once I get my fic plate cleaned. I make no promises but the whole prompt premise intrigues me....I’d like to see what Nolan  & Abram’s writers would have done with it! 

To the prompt submitter: I hope that this isn’t too far off the mark for you (forgive me for that) and also that you’ll forgive it for being so late. Your prompt made me go to writing places that I don’t think I would have otherwise and I appreciate it. Thanks for participating in my gift fic offer! 

Original Prompt: 

Pairing: None. Friendship is fine by me.  
Characters: Reese, Finch (Carter and/or Fusco optional.)  
Rating max: PG-13  
Genre: Hurt/Comfort  
Time Period: Season 1 or 2, doesn't matter. 

Details: I'm thinking a 'nightmare before Christmas' type of thing: The new number belongs to a really creepy clown in the Coney Island circus. I don't care if the clown is the victim or the perp. If he's the perp, he's trying to kill a Santa Claus. If he's the vic, there's a Santa Claus trying to kill him. Reese is investigating, gets caught up in the middle of whatever the freaky situation is between the clown and the Santa Claus, and gets whumped. Show me the aftermath - Finch helping Reese get patched up, waking him from nightmares about clowns/Santa Claus, whatever type of comfort fits the hurt. I would like some actual physical whump, not just psychological, but no torture or non-con please. 

Thanks for considering! :) 


End file.
